


The Wrath of Heaven

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher potions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24098560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: For the prompt:While Geralt and Jaskier are traveling, Geralt gets a migraine so bad it nearly incapacitates him. And therefore it's up to Jaskier to get Geralt somewhere safe, coax and haggle with the innkeeper who doesn't want to allow a witcher in, and then take care of Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 498
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	The Wrath of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> While this is primarily based off of the television show, there is some info from the book _The Last Wish_. Essentially, a Witcher's augmented eyesight does not allow him perfect night-vision, but there is a potion they can take which grants them this ability temporarily. A side-effect of the potion, however, is an extreme sensitivity to light -- in this case, Geralt suffers an ocular migraine as a result of this hypersensitivity, but it is implied that he has a history of migraines as well.

Geralt winces as the first rays of sun crest the horizon. It’s still relatively dark－he knows that he still has a little while until Jaskier starts to stir, his stomach rumbling for a crust of sweet bread smothered in jam and whatever unlucky beast had wandered into Geralt’s snares from the night before－but even the slightest increase in light is too much for his dialated pupils to handle. He ducks his head and groans.  _ Fuck _ .

He  _ knew _ that it was a mistake to take that godsdamned potion. It was too close to the dawn, but he couldn’t fucking  _ see _ . And now, he’s paying the price for his foolishness. It starts as little pinpricks of pain along his eye sockets, a distant throbbing that he can ignore if he just stops  _ thinking _ about it. Keeping his eyes closed doesn’t take the pain away, but it dulls the ache for a little while… at least until the sun is at its early morning peak, and then, even with his face buried in his hands and the thickest blanket they own draped over his head, everything is still too fucking bright and it  _ hurts _ .

It’s too hot underneath the blanket, and he thinks that that may be why everything feels like it’s spinning, even though the last shreds of his brain that’re functioning properly tell him that it’s not. And then suddenly something is pulling the blanket back and the sounds of the forest, which had been a slightly grating, but mostly pleasant buzz of white noise are drowned out by someone screaming. Except… no, they’re not screaming. They’re speaking, normally, but their face is too close, their voice is too loud. Each word is like a bloody hammer against his temples and he wants… he wants…

The body withdraws, but moves the blanket out of reach. Geralt curses softly, only for a gentle hand to return a moment later with a cool cloth soaked in lavender. “Shh. I know it hurts. Let me help.”

It’s a struggle to peel Geralt’s hands from his face, but someone－a tiny voice in the back of his head screams Jaskier; his scent is comforting, safe,  _ good _ －manages to slide that blissfully cool cloth over his aching eyes. The scent of lavender is strong－too strong, under normal circumstances, for the Witcher’s hypersensitive senses to handle－but it soothes his aching stomach, and allows him to take a few deep, shuddering breaths without fear of retching all over himself, the bedroll, and Jaskier. He takes a deep breath, then another, and prays that the potion has almost finished working its way out of his system.

Not that that will cause the pain to  _ stop _ , mind you. No, he’ll be dealing with the effects of this absolutely hellacious headache for most of the day, if not longer. That’s the problem with potion-induced ailments. The pain doesn’t always end once the potion has run its course. 

A cool piece of metal touches his lips, and he recoils so fast he almost dislodges the cloth－but Jaskier is faster. He carefully adjusts the cloth before any light can sneak in, pressing the metal to Geralt’s lips again, “Shh… it’s just water. You need to drink… Just a few sips, nice and slow… That’s it…”

“Fuck…” Geralt groans, as Jaskier’s lute-calloused fingers sweep across his temple. This is not how he planned for their day to go at all. They should be well on their way to the next town by now… but right now, the very thought of moving is enough to make him want to retch. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” Jaskier asks, his voice soft, distant. His touch is gentle as he continues to caress Geralt’s face. 

“...Potion…” it’s difficult to focus long enough to form a vaguely coherent sentence. It’s also difficult, even in his pain-addled state, to admit that he fucked up so badly he incapacitated himself for the indefinite future. 

“Okay…” he can almost see the way Jaskier is frowning, “are you telling me that this is the nasty side-effect of one of your potions, or you need me to get one of your potions because this is something else entirely?”

“S-Side effect.” Gods, here comes the nausea again. He takes a deep, trembling breath of lavender, and steels himself to continue, “Though the sedative… couldn’t hurt… p-probably.” 

“...Probably?” He sounds absolutely  _ thrilled _ at Geralt’s lack of confidence. Geralt, honest to gods, just wants to  _ sleep _ .

“It’s a bright r-reddish orange.”

He feels Jaskier move from his side, and a few seconds later there’s the soft sounds of rummaging as he picks through his saddlebag in search of the aforementioned potion. He hears him pop the cork on the little glass vial, and make a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat as he catches a whiff of the potent concoction. But, as per Geralt’s request, he brings it over and helps him to swallow down the contents of the vial, chasing it down with a few swallows of cold water. He’ll sleep for a few hours and wake feeling like absolute shit－but at least he’ll be able to open his fucking eyes without feeling like he’s dying. 

“Stay nearby… just in case…” He doesn’t have time to warn Jaskier that he’ll be effectively dead to the world for the next few hours before sleep claims him, but Jaskier is smart. He’s certain he already knows. 

* * *

“What do you mean, you haven’t any rooms? Just a moment ago, you were complaining to your girl about how poor business has been of late!” Jaskier fumes, adjusting the still-unconscious Witcher draped over his shoulder. Gods, but Geralt is  _ heavy _ …

“We’ve no room for  _ his _ kind, here.” The innkeep has the nerve to  _ spit _ at Geralt’s feet, and Jaskier sees red.

“Okay,  _ first of all _ ,” Jaskier hisses, “the man is fucking  _ unconscious _ . What the hell can he do? And even if he  _ could _ do something, he wouldn’t－he risks his life, daily, to save your sorry asses from monsters, and you have the gall to  _ spit at his feet _ －,”

The innkeep’s eye twitches, “If you expect me to allow…  _ that _ in here, you’ll pay triple. And be out come dawn.”

“Triple?! That’s ridiculous! I’ll pay double, and not a cent more, you lackwitted, money-hungry cur.” He’s hungry, he’s tired (hauling an unconscious, full-grown man two and a half miles to the nearest town would do that to a person), but he needs to get Geralt somewhere safe before he wakes and－

The man grumbles, shoving a rusted key across the counter with a bit more force than necessary. “Fine, fine. Just… get that  _ thing _ out of my sight.” 

Jaskier tosses a small purse of coins across the counter. Under ordinary circumstances, he most certainly would not have stooped to the innkeep’s level… he mutters a few colorful curses underneath his breath, summoning the strength necessary to drag Geralt’s body up the stairs. Their room is little more than a glorified storage closet, with a bed that creaks dangerously underneath Geralt’s weight, but at least it’s a bed. He lays him down gently, tugging his worn leather boots off of his feet and taking them, along with his cloak, over to the corner. 

He makes a quick trip downstairs in order to retrieve their bags, and takes the chance to slip the stableboy a few extra coins for a few shiny red apples for Roach. He doesn’t bother trying to ask the innkeep for food or hot water for a bath－with the way he spat vitriol earlier, odds are anything sent up to their room would be poisoned. That being said, if Geralt’s stomach is still off when he wakes, he won’t be able to eat anything too heavy. Thankfully, they still have some edible rations which should be able to tide him over until he’s feeling up to something more substantial.

Geralt is still unconscious when he arrives back at the room, which is good. While he had technically kept his word and kept close, he had a feeling Geralt intended for them to remain in the forest until he was back on his feet. If Geralt woke up alone in an unfamiliar room, well… migraine be damned, it wouldn’t be good. Sighing, he places their belongings in the corner, before rifling in his satchel for a slightly bruised pear, a crust of bread, a bottle of honey, and a small knife. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed and begins smearing honey on the bread. He’s just begun slicing up the pear when Geralt finally stirs. 

“Well hello there, Sleeping Beauty. And here I was, wondering if you were waiting to be awoken with a kiss.” Geralt hums softly, and Jaskier sets the food and knife aside to gently brush his fingertips over Geralt’s forehead. “How’re you feeling?”

“...Like I was headbutted… by a boar.” Geralt rasps, “Where… Do I even want to know where we are?”

“We’re safe.” Jaskier says, and Geralt seems to accept this. Or, at least, he’s in too much pain to argue the matter further. “And don’t worry－your one true love is well taken care of. She’s down in the stable, drowning in all of the apples she can eat.”

Geralt snorts, “You spoil her.”

“She deserves to be spoiled, after carrying your fat ass to the nearest beacon of civilization.” He huffs, “But seriously though. I know this isn’t much, but we’ll be safe here, until this passes.”

“...Jaskier…”

He holds out the crust of bread in offering, “Do you think you can stomach a little food? I know that Witchers are made of tougher stock than us humans, but you still need to eat.”

“Hmm,” Geralt closes his eyes… but he takes the crust of bread, regardless. 

He chews slowly, managing to finish off the entire crust of bread and about half of the pear before stopping. The room is dark, save for the light of a single lantern, but even so, Jaskier can tell that Geralt’s pupils have returned to normal. That’s a good sign. Even if his migraine persists, he should be a bit less sensitive to the light now. He encourages him to take a few small sips of water, still cautious of his sensitive stomach, before unpacking one of their thicker furs to drape over Geralt’s feet. The inn’s blankets are like paper (or maybe that’s just this room, specifically), which, ordinarily, would be fine, seeing as Geralt typically runs hot… but everyone’s feet are susceptible to chill, even a Witcher’s, and he would hate for Geralt to fall sick.

Not that Witchers  _ can _ get sick, of course. Because, you know, they’re big and bad and impervious to all of the foils of mortal flesh, blah blah blah. Up until that morning, he hadn’t thought it possible for a Witcher to succumb to a migraine either. But what do you know, you learn something new everyday. 

“How’s your stomach?” Jaskier asks, as he takes a seat by Geralt’s feet once again. “I know that the lavender oil can upset your delicate little nose,” Geralt scowls, causing Jaskier to stifle a bark of laughter, “but it’s good for an upset tummy. But if you’re feeling better, we can try the chamomile.”

“Chamomile… please.” Jaskier hums, taking out a small kerchief and wetting it with the softly perfumed oil. 

“So polite. Is this what happens when you get a full eight hours rest?” The bard snickers.

“Fuck you.” Golden eyes slip closed as Jaskier gently drapes the cloth over his face.

“Maybe later. When you’re feeling better.” Within moments, Geralt is asleep again, and Jaskier decides to see if he can start a fire in the miniature pit the innkeep would have him believe was a fireplace without burning the whole building down. 

* * *

“...What’re you doing?” Geralt grumbles. His hazy golden eyes flutter open to find Jaskier bent double above him, his head resting on the bard’s lap as lute-calloused fingers lazily comb through his hair. 

“Um… I suppose that saying I’m watching you sleep would sound a bit odd, now wouldn’t it?” He chuckles softly, “How about we say that I’m… massaging your scalp? Yeah, that sounds decidedly less creepy.”

“Hmm… Whatever helps you to sleep better at night.” Still, he doesn’t try to move away, so Jaskier considers this a win. 

“I don’t think that I’ve seen you sleep this much in the two decades we’ve been traveling together.” He says softly, continuing to work his fingers through Geralt’s silvery-white hair. “I know how this will sound, coming from the one whose head doesn’t feel like it’s being split in two… but a better sleeping routine may help prevent migraines－,”

Geralt scrunches his nose, “I told you, this is the result of a potion－,”

“Come now, Geralt. I’m not blind. You cannot honestly believe that you can convince me that this is the first time you’ve ever suffered a migraine, or that every last one of them was caused by a mishap with a potion.”

“I…” his full lips twitch down into a frown, “It’s not the first, no.”

That seems to be all that his Witcher is willing to concede, which is fine－it’s considerably more than he’d thought he would get when he’d first thought to bring the matter up. He feeds him a few more slices of pear, pleased to see that he seems a bit more interested in the food this time around. Geralt confirms that the nausea has all but abated, though being unable to stomach anything substantial has left him feeling a bit dizzy. Jaskier is prepared for this, however, and gently lays Geralt down to rifle through their bags once more. It doesn’t take him long to locate the small pouch of oats, safely tucked away in one of the bag’s many hidden compartments. 

“Please, gods, tell me you’re not about to feed me gruel.” Geralt grunts as he slowly drags himself into an upright position. His lovely hair is sticking up at all sorts of odd angles, and plastered to the sides of his face with sweat. He  _ definitely _ needs a bath.

“It’s the breakfast of champions.” Jaskier says as he flashes the other man his brightest smile.

“Fuck.”

He takes out a little cooking pot, sprinkling the entire pouch of oats inside, along with a little bit of water, a few slices of apple, and some chia seeds. He might not be able to serve Geralt rabbit or venison, but the addition of the chia seeds should make him feel as though he’s had a more substantial meal and will hopefully tide him over until this all has passed. It doesn’t take long for the oats to cook, and he’s tempted to serve them to Geralt as-is－it would serve the ungrateful bastard right, to have the nerve to complain about his cooking after everything he’d done for him thus far. But he’s not cruel, and Geralt is still hurting, so he mixes in some honey to taste and hands it over with a smile. 

Geralt, ever the picture of docile obedience, eats it all, swallowing it down with a few more mouthfuls of water. Jaskier uses the last little bit to wet a handkerchief to dab the worst of the sweat from Geralt’s brow. It’s certainly not as effective as a proper bath, but by the time he’s finished, the Witcher looks less like he’d spent the last week bed-ridden with a fever and more like he’d spent the afternoon running laps around the marsh for shits and giggles. He combs his hair, working out any tangles that may’ve formed during his fitful rest, but refrains from putting it up, conscious of the fact that pulling the Witcher’s hair back might actually  _ increase _ his pain. 

“Come here.” Geralt whispers, wrapping his fingers around Jaskier’s wrist and tugging him down so that they’re resting side-by-side. “Your lap wasn’t half-bad. ‘s much comfier than the pillow, at any rate.”

Cornflower blue eyes flutter over to the actual  _ brick _ that Geralt had been resting on, “Gee… I’m  _ flattered _ .” He rolls his eyes, but allows Geralt to snuggle down onto his lap, regardless. “Shall I sing to you? You seemed to like when I did that earlier…”

“Hmm…” well, that certainly isn’t a  _ no _ …

“When I say I love you, please believe it’s true/When I say forever, know I’ll never leave you/When I say goodbye, promise me you won’t cry/Because the day I’ll be saying that will be the day I die…”

* * *

“You let him charge you  _ double _ to put us up in a  _ closet _ for the night.” Geralt stares at his bard, dumbfounded, as they load Roach’s saddle bags. 

Jaskier heaves a dramatic sigh, “Good to know that you’re feeling better, Geralt. And here I was, worried that your powerful skills of observation and fantastically dry wit would not survive this endeavor.” Adjusting his lute strap idly, he continues, “Yes, I did. And you had a comfor－a war－look, you had a roof over your head, okay?”

“Mmm…” and then, the Witcher averts his gaze. “...thanks for that, by the way. I’m… I’m feeling much better.”

“What’s that? The high and mighty Witcher, actually  _ thanking _ his humble bard for helping to slay the most hideous monster of all: the migraine? Be still my beating heart… are you sure you wouldn’t rather growl something vaguely coherent at me and pretend like this never happened?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, “...and you ruined it.”

Jaskier’s laugh is positively musical as he falls into step a few paces behind Roach, strumming his fingers along the strings idly. “Ahh… And just like that, everything is back to normal.” And then, soft enough that he’s confident the Witcher couldn’t hear, even with his augmented hearing, “You’re welcome, love. Any time.”


End file.
